19

S tephen stared at Elizabeth, his throat thick. How could she guess—

"Please," he managed. "Let's talk about something else."

She gazed at him for a long moment, then nodded. "More tea."

Briskly, she plucked his cup from its saucer and placed it back into the machine, then set about arranging all the pulleys and wheels and trapdoors and dominoes and other paraphernalia until the device was once again ready to dispense milk.

She pressed the correct lever, then settled into her seat with a smile. "Where were we?"

"You reset the tea machine?" he asked in disbelief.

"You always do it. I thought it was time I did my part."

"But… how did you know your part? No one has ever been able to reset any of my machines. Not even when I was a child, and still learning how to make them."

"I watched you do it," she replied. "Isn't that what I just said? I've witnessed you put your devices in order dozens of time. Including a few minutes ago."

"Yes, of course I saw you were here, but…"

But I didn't know you were watching. Not like that. Paying attention to how his creations worked. To how he worked. Figuring him out. Putting things in order. Even if that order was messy and chaotic and absurd.

"I would have taken over sooner, but I was afraid I'd get it wrong," she admitted. "Accidentally put whiskey into your tea, or launch a firestorm of grenades. Keeping up with someone so clever isn't always simple, but I do enjoy a challenge."

He stared at her in wonder. She didn't think him a peculiar, mathematics-obsessed tinker. Well, maybe she did, but she didn't view it as a bad thing. The opposite. She played along with him. Wanted him to be one hundred percent Stephen. The idea was dizzying.

"Come with me," he said, and put down his tea.

She rose from her chair at once. "Where are we going?"

"My laboratory. I was going to wait to show you what I've been working on for your next family members, but… Maybe you would like to help me design the mechanism?"

Her eyes shone. "I would be honored."

He gave her a quick kiss on the lips because he couldn't help himself, then wrapped her fingers about his arm and led her to the Great Hall, where a new multi-levered wooden pyramid reached toward the sky.

She took in the new machine with interest. "Does this one also break down to fit inside a single trunk?"

"All of the keepsake devices will," he confirmed.

"Who is this one for?"

"I'll give you a clue. This side has a lever that will raise up to four illuminated manuscripts for reading, then automatically store them back inside, away from dust and sunlight. There's also a mechanical arm for reaching books on high shelves, and a pistol that fires marbles."

Elizabeth clapped her hands. "Philippa! What else does it do?"

"This side sorts and retrieves wigs and associated accessories in predetermined patterns. For example, if your sibling typically requires A, B, and C for a certain disguise, and C, D, and E for another, each button can be programmed to select the relevant items, which will be delivered on this tray."

"Tommy will adore it." She feigned a swoon. "Are you certain you need me for anything?"

"Well, there are two more sides. I was thinking metal tubes that squirt hot oil at intruders, but it's been done before—"

"Passé," she agreed. "So last century."

"—and I really wanted something that meshed more with their particular skills and personalities."

"An action that causes chaos," she said slowly, "in the most Tommy-and-Philippa way possible."

He nodded. "Any ideas?"

"Well…" She walked around the machine in a slow circle. "They both wear disguises. My favorite is when they pretend to be Great-Aunt and Great-Uncle Wynchester. They have caused a lot of chaos that way, and they look about as frightening as wrinkly old ancestors in some nob's Hall of Portraits."

"That's it!" He grinned at her. "I'll make living portraits. It'll only work in dim lighting, but there are always plenty of shadows."

"Living… portraits?"

He gestured at one of the empty sides. "Imagine this has a trapdoor that allows Tommy to slip inside. And a canvas comes down, appearing to be a life-size portrait of Great… Which ‘great' is she?"

"Great-Aunt."

"… Great-Aunt Wynchester. Unnervingly lifelike. Because it's not a painting at all. At least, only the background is. The rest is colored gauze. It's really Tommy, disguised as a painting, which she can step out of at the moment it would most inconvenience whoever is passing in front of her."

"I love it," Elizabeth breathed. "I want an entire hall of portraits that aren't portraits. It'd be like your murder room, except I'd get to leap out of a painting and do the murdering myself!"

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Not just for helping him put the perfect touch of anarchy on the souvenir he was making. Not even for caring about his machines—caring about him —enough to teach herself how to reset his absurdly complicated devices.

But because she had achieved the impossible. Instead of trying to prevent someone else from entering his life, Stephen was trying unsuccessfully to avoid thinking about the day he'd return home to a life without Elizabeth in it.

So he kissed her as though that day would never come. As though if they kept their bodies pressed together and their mouths locked in—

"Densmooore," boomed a distant male voice.

"You must be bamming me," Stephen murmured against Elizabeth's parted lips. "Is that blackguard going to interrupt every time I kiss you?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Let's see what he wants."

She bounded over to the closest window without hesitation. Stephen followed, mortifyingly cognizant that whilst he would rather keep wooing his houseguest, Elizabeth was already back on the case.

He should do the same, he reminded himself. It was illogical to make room for her in his life when they both knew she would soon leave it. Their arrangement was temporary and could end at any moment. Just as soon as they found the will or the deed.

Or until the rumors about Reddington's murderousness turned all too real.

"Well," Elizabeth said, leaning her head out of the window. "He brought his army again."

Stephen looked out over her shoulder. There on the grass below was Reddington in his Duke of Wellington costume, along with the same squadron of foot soldiers as before.

At least, Stephen assumed these were the same players. Elizabeth had probably memorized their precise formation and written down descriptions of each individual visage in her journal.

"It's an intimidation campaign," she whispered to Stephen. "It's not working."

"Speak for yourself," he murmured back.

A hundred or so armed soldiers, whether a properly trained regiment or not, could certainly do a significant amount of damage.

"Mere days remain until the battle royal," Reddington announced through a long brass speaking trumpet.

Stephen's heart skipped. "Until the what ?"

"Battle royal." Reddington fired a musket into the air. Birds squawked and fled. Reddington smiled.

Stephen did not. That had been a real bullet.

"If you do not surrender this castle by the first of June," Reddington continued, "lawyers will be the least of your concerns. His Grace and his men will storm these grounds and take possession of this land by force. Your tongue may be sharp, but your castle will crumble."

Elizabeth snorted under her breath. "I'm not afraid of a battle royal."

" I am," Stephen whispered. "Have you noticed which side has an army?"

"If you wish to avoid total annihilation, bring me the deed," Reddington's voice shouted up. "We can settle this now, like men."

"Then you will die," Elizabeth called back. "I settle things like a woman. Are you afraid to be as honorable? I did not peg you as cowardly, Your Grace ."

Reddington jerked backward. "What did you just say?"

"I asked for a fair fight," she called down. "No more long-distance attacks on the earl with your poison and arrows."

"In your opinion," Stephen whispered. "One hundred to one is a fair fight? As long as it's up close?"

"You want fair?" Reddington roared. "This castle is mine and you are keeping it from me. His Grace shall retaliate as he sees fit!"

"He hasn't agreed to a thing we've said," Stephen pointed out. "He answers without answering. Or implies something different from what he means."

Elizabeth nodded. "Reddington is tricky. We won't let him get away with misdirection."

"Or murder," Stephen added.

"I thought we both liked murdering," she whispered back.

"I dislike being hanged for it," he specified. "Or being on the wrong end."

"You're one hundred percent safe. Reddington could never beat me."

"Are we talking about the man who arranged to have his enemies killed and successfully avoided legal repercussions? Then attempted the same trick on me?"

"His mock soldiers could never beat me in combat ," she clarified. "Not one at a time."

"What makes you think he wouldn't send all his men in at once? We have to stop this battle royal. It's not a fight we can win."

Elizabeth made a face, then leaned out the window. "Reddington, we understand your position. Please understand ours. If we can prove that you've no claim over this castle, you must never step foot on this property again. Do we have your word as a man of honor?"

Reddington's head looked ready to explode. He shook his IOU at them in defiance. "You do not. What about Densmore's word as a man of honor?"

"At least negotiate terms with us like a true general," she tried again. "We can set a future date for a calm, rational meeting. If you like, you can bring a lawyer, and we'll settle the matter like gentlemen."

"After reneging on a debt of honor, you dare accuse His Grace of not being a gentleman?" Reddington shook his musket. "You go too far, girl. I am the honorable one. Therefore, I shall negotiate battle terms with you on one condition."

"Don't do it," Stephen said. "It's a trick."

"It doesn't matter," Elizabeth said with frustration. "We need him to agree to negotiate, or he'll keep attacking the castle. I doubt implementing war strategies is part of Miss Oak's planned curriculum for the orphanage. If Reddington will agree to sit down for a peaceful conversation on one condition—"

"We don't know the condition," Stephen reminded her.

"Well, whatever it may be is better than what we have now." She leaned out the window. "What is your condition, Reddington?"

"His Grace shall grant Densmore an audience for negotiation if—and only if—Densmore wins a duel against one of His Grace's men."

" No ," said Stephen. "I'm not my cousin, and I don't intend to die for him."

"No problem," said Elizabeth. "I'll do the battling." She poked her head back out the window. "We accept on a condition of our own. No dueling pistols. Each side shall contribute exactly one representative, who will be armed with the sword of his choice."

"We'll cut off your head!" called out one of the soldiers.

"Then tomorrow afternoon, at five o'clock—" Reddington began.

"Tomorrow?" Stephen choked. "We don't even get a few days to prepare?"

"—Densmore will bleed," Reddington finished. "When he loses the duel, the castle is mine."

"Not Densmore," Elizabeth shouted back. "His representative: me."

"You?" Reddington sputtered. "A woman cannot possibly hold her own against—"

"Then you should have no objection to an easy win. I'll be ready. Send your best contender."

"You haven't a chance in hell," Reddington said with a confident smirk. He shot another musket ball into the air. "Tomorrow, your head will roll!"

Stephen winced at the musket blast. Those were definitely real guns. Which meant, tomorrow, Elizabeth would face down a real soldier, with a real sword.

A delegate who might really believe it his duty to divest her of her head.

Elizabeth grinned at him. "I can't wait."

"Did you not hear the part about your impending decapitation?"

She snorted. "They'll never get close enough."

"I won't risk your neck." Stephen turned to the open window and yelled, "One more condition: The duel is to the disarming, not to the death!"

It was not until he awoke at midnight in a cold sweat that Stephen realized Reddington had not given his word.